About Me

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Jim and I were standing the last watch before dawn. I had
no trouble staying awake after the story the housekeeper had told. I could
scarcely credit her tale but I had no other explanation for what I had seen
with my own eyes. With the first false dawn Margarate approached me. Her tone
was less imperious and more friendly than it had been earlier. She offered up
some small talk which I found tedious at this time of day, and at last I asked
her plainly what was on her mind. She
bridled, but adopted a more business-like tone. She described how her husband
had kept a fortune in silver coins in a small chest in his study. When the
situation began to deteriorate, he secretly hid the chest in the warehouse by
the dock. She hinted that her father would not be pleased if we left the island
without recovering the chest. I explained to her that our departure was likely
to be a desperate business and it wasn’t likely we would have an opportunity to
search for the chest. At that moment a picture of that horrid pagan altar we
had seen in the warehouse when we landed was in my mind. Margarate started to
argue the matter, but at that moment the maid, Martha interrupted. With tears
in her eyes she said she had gone to check Seth’s wound and had found him dead.
Doctor Menting and Hector soon joined us. The doctor expressed his surprise at
the death, as the wound had not been a mortal one. While Menting went to
examine Seth the housekeeper entered the room and told us the slaves were
gathering about 100 yards from the front of the house. She showed no surprise
at the news of our man’s death, but said he must not fall into the witch doctor’s
hands or he would become like those things outside.

....the slaves were gathering...

All of us were now together. The light was increasing and
there were a dozen or a few more of the slaves forming a ragged line across our
route to the dock. A few others could be seen in the distance moving slowly in
our direction. We had to decide quickly what we would do. We couldn’t bring
Seth’s body with us and we couldn’t leave him behind. At this juncture, Hector
spoke up. He asked the housekeeper what might be done to prevent Seth’s
transformation. She responded that the body must be burnt or the head removed.
Without hesitation Hector directed Menting to remove the head and rejoin the
group ready to move out.He spoke to us
in an even tone but he wore the habit of command plainly and I think our
spirits were lifted by his steadiness. We were going to stay in a tight group
with the four men in front and the three women close behind. The line of slaves
blocking our path was broken up by scattered patches of dense undergrowth. We
would exit the house and move quickly toward a gap in the undergrowth to our
right front. Three slaves stood in that gap. About halfway to that gap Hector
would give the command Halt! Fire! We would drop those three slaves and bolt
through the gap. As we had observed the previous day, the slaves were slow and
clumsy. Our speed would be our salvation. Hector warned us that no one must
stop to reload, and any man that fell behind must be left to his fate, Speed
was everything.

I was being left behind!

We broke from the front door, formed quickly as
instructed, and began to jog toward the gap. The slaves were in motion toward
us all along the line. About halfway Hector gave the command to halt and fire.
Our four muskets banged out a ragged volley. We were blinded for the moment by
the smoke but Hector shouted “Move!” and we began jogging forward again. I was
relieved to see all three of the slaves on the ground, but two others were now
near enough to dispute our passage. My crewman Joe moved the women through the
gap and to the right, away from the closest slaves while Menting and Hector
struck the two slaves with their musket butts. I moved to follow Joe and the
women when I felt a pair of claw-like hands clutching my leg. One of the slaves
I thought we had dispatched was dragging at me and snarling like an animal. I
think I am as steady a hand as most men, but at that moment terror overtook me.
I saw Menting and Hector running to catch Joe and the women. I was being left
behind! Several slaves were approaching me, attracted by the sound of my
struggle with the thing clawing at my leg. I felt despair and surrender rising
in me, the horror of becoming one of them,
and then I found a last reserve of strength. I struck savagely with my musket
butt on the head of my assailant and twisted out of his grip. I slipped on the
blood and went down on one knee. As the monsters closed on me, I sprang to my
feet and ran. I felt fingers clutching at my coat but I focused all on just
running as fast as I could. My musket fell from my hand and was left behind.
The path the others had taken was now blocked, so I swerved farther to my right
and found another path.

I sprang to my feet and ran

I had left my
pursuers behind but I didn’t slacken my pace until I reached the shore. I saw
the others gathered at the dock, but instead of boarding the sloop there was
some sort of argument underway. Doctor Menting had Margarate by the arm, Hector
was loading his musket and looking back at the slowly advancing slaves. Joe was
helping the men left behind to prepare to cast off. I ran down the beach to the
group just as Margarate broke away from Menting. She ran to the warehouse intending, I suppose, to search for her husband’s chest
of silver. Just as Menting caught up with her, she pulled the door open and
recoiled in horror. There in the shed, seated above that awful pagan shrine was
a slave with elaborate symbols painted on his body and her husband and the
overseer! I reached the dock and could see the slave stand up, laughing
maniacally. The two white men were dead, but awake like the other slaves. The
painted man must have been the witch doctor. I ran down the dock and boarded
the Hermione. Hector stood at the end of the dock, eyes fixed on the advancing
slaves and called out “To me, Doctor!”. Menting
slapped the struggling Margarate hard and half dragged, half carried her to the
ship. We were able to push away from the
dock just as the slave things emerged from the path onto the beach.

As the island faded in the distance we fugitives were
still sitting on the deck, in silence. Hector was in conversation with the
mate, who was steering a course for Saint Martins. I feared that if I stood and
walked over to join them my legs might fail me. Hector walked over, sat next to
me and offered me his flask. He smiled (for the first time since we met) and
said “You did well, Captain”. That, and the strong drink in the flask steadied
me and I was soon able to assume command of my Hermione. The voyage back to
Saint Martins was uneventful. The man Hector took his leave a few days after we
landed as, he said he had business in Havana. Doctor Menting spent a good deal
of time in the company of the widow Margarate. They were married a few months
later. I wish him joy of it but I think a good man like him could have done
better. Still, her father was a very wealthy man. For my part, I got to know
her maid, Martha on the voyage home. She was a sweet girl who I thought had
conducted herself with credit on the island. We talked for hours when I took my
turn at the helm, and by the time we reached Saint Martins, she had agreed to
be my wife. Over the years of our long and happy marriage we had rarely spoken
of Turtle Island, until the night of the Governor’s reception, and if God
grants it we will think of it no more.

Note: This was
originally a game that I played with Mike (who styles himself King of St
Maurice) using The Dead Walk zombie rules with some basic card draw stuff to
generate zombies and random events. After the game Mike began riffing on all
that we might do with the card deck to flesh out the characters and generate
actions they might take consistent with their personalities. I’m retired now,
so I did a solo rerun of the original later in the week using the additional ‘chrome’.
The story above is that game. Mike and I will continue to refine the thing for
use in other heroic adventure type games set in various periods.

Monday, November 16, 2015

For a while we stood to arms, expecting another attack
but none came. Dusk was coming on and we agreed it wouldn’t be prudent to try
to get back to the ship in the growing darkness. I feared for the safety of the
few crewmen I had left on board, but we heard no firing from that direction and
my first mate, a wise and experienced man was in charge there. We posted Jim
and Seth to watch the front and back of the house from second floor windows.
The maid, a young lass named Martha, tended to Seth’s wound and the housekeeper
prepared a meal for us while Menting, Hector and I talked with Margarate about
what had just happened. It seemed things had been even worse than she had
hinted to her father in her letters. Her husband’s drinking and brutality
disgusted her. He and his overseer worked the slaves without mercy, and at last
a sickness took hold in the slave quarters. One of the slaves had been an
important man in their land, a witch doctor of some sort. He undertook the care
of the sick men but, despite his best efforts the slaves began to die, two or
three a day at first and then ten or a dozen. The fool Colbert tried to bully
the native, who soon grew cold and defiant. One night as he sat over his dinner
the overseer insisted on speaking to him immediately. He reported that there
were no fresh burials in the scrub land that had been set aside for the
purpose. When he confronted the witch doctor the man smiled wickedly and
assured him no graves were required.

The residents in the manor house were used to the sound
of joyless singing coming from the slave quarters in the evening. When the
sickness came the sound changed to something akin to a primitive worship service.
The singing faded away over the next two days. The overseer, who alone could
communicate with the slaves, feared to approach their quarters, and the next
morning when the overseer failed to report for instructions, Colbert took his
gun and stormed over to the man’s cabin in a rage. When he returned Margarate
found him pale and shaken. He mumbled something about blood on the floor and
the man being gone. Colbert lingered indoors for the rest of the day, drank
himself into a stupor and fell asleep in the drawing room on the ground floor.
Margarate retired and heard nothing during the night. When she awoke in the
morning, he was gone. Later that same day our ship had arrived. She knew not
whether he was dead or alive and she didn’t care.

She shared with us stories her mother had told her.

While we were talking, the black housekeeper
brought food. She lingered around the room fussing with one thing or another
until at last her mistress lost patience and told her to get out. Hector
intervened and asked her what she had to say. I can scarcely credit what she
told us even now. Haltingly at first, and then with more confidence as she
found she was not being mocked, she shared with us stories that her mother had
told her. Her mother had been brought from Africa as a slave and among the
stories she told were tales of witch doctors who had the power to raise the
dead and control them. She believed that our’s was such a man. Doctor Menting
spoke then about the slave he had examined briefly during our fight that day.
The man’s body gave every indication of having been dead for several days, and
yet he had attacked our party. Hector then proposed that we take turns standing
watch and be prepared to strike out for the ship at dawn.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

I had sailed in the Hermione before, but this was my
first time in command and everything seemed new and exciting. We enjoyed fair
weather all the way to Saint Martins. My mission was to meet with the head of
the Van Hendriks House, a respected Dutch trading firm, and secure an agreement
regarding commerce between our Houses. I arrived in port and that same evening
I dined with Abraham Van Hendriks. After dinner we retired to his library to
discuss business. I presented my proposal and was surprised by his response.
Instead of a negotiation, he said he would accept my terms as stated if I would
assist him in a personal matter. A year earlier he had arranged what he thought
was a fine marriage for his only daughter, Margarate, to a wealthy planter.
This man, Colbert, had come to the islands five years before and had
established his plantation on a small, uninhabited island. He named his new
home Turtle Island, and spent lavishly on a fine home and 100 slaves to clear
the land for growing sugar cane.

At first all seemed well with Margarate. Van Hendriks
ships that brought supplies to the island and returned with cargoes of sugar
always brought a letter from her full of little details about her household.
More recently, the letters hinted at her husband’s drunkenness and cruelty. He
and his overseer worked the slaves brutally. She had only the company of her
maid, Martha and the housekeeper, a black freewoman named Mary for consolation.
Margarate knew not where her husband might turn his rage next, and feared for
her safety. Van Hendrik wanted to bring his daughter home, but to send one of
his own ships would attract attention and turn the matter into a public
scandal. The favor he asked of me was to transport his trusted friend Doctor
Menting to Turtle Island to quietly bring his daughter home. This all seemed a
simple enough task to secure a very favorable agreement with Hendriks, so I
agreed and Hendriks promised to have his people, Menting and Hector at the dock
in time to sail with the morning tide two days hence.

At the appointed time Hendriks people arrived. Doctor
Menting was a young man, tall and thin with an easy smile and a look of a
university student about him. His companion, the German Hector, was an odd duck.
He was not a young man, but looked to be a man of action. I was a bit unsettled
to see both men had included a musket among their gear. And so we set off for
Turtle Island. Our destination was but two days easy sailing to the North West,
which gave me time to get acquainted with my passengers. Menting was a fine
fellow with a great store of interesting tales. Hector was quiet but, despite
his well worn clothes, a gentleman and very widely travelled.

In due course we
arrived off Turtle Island. As we coasted around to the dockside we had a view
of the cane fields. We could see a few of the slaves moving about but no one was
working the fields. I hadn’t thought much about it until I saw Hector leaning
on the rail and watching. While I didn’t see anything worth observing he was
taking in every detail. We tied up at the dock and disembarked. I decided to
accompany Menting and Hector. For insurance I brought two of my most steady men
and we armed ourselves with muskets as Menting and Hector were. Just to the
right of the docks was a small warehouse with the double doors half open. I
would have passed it by but Hector suggested we look inside. As we swung the
doors back the smell was overpowering. Blood had been spilled here and there
was a grotesque primitive religious display of some kind that included human
remains. We backed out of the shed, checked the priming on our muskets and
moved inland. Hector and I were in the lead and the others close behind. We
could see the house a few hundred yards off through gaps in the undergrowth. As
we made our way along the path Hector tapped my forearm lightly and pointed off
to our left. A single slave was approaching us. He seemed listless but clearly
he had seen us and was moving our way. I called out a question to the man but
he ignored me and kept shuffling toward us.

"The man is sick..."

“The man is sick” said Doctor Menting. Hector leveled his
musket at ten yards and put a bullet through the slave’s heart. The wretch
dropped to the ground and we all looked at the German with shock and surprise.
Before we could speak Hector said “He was a threat, look”. He pointed off to
our right front and there were two more slaves in the same disoriented state
moving toward us through the undergrowth. “Take them” he said coolly as he
started to reload, and Menting and my two men stepped forward and leveled their
muskets. Before they could fire the slaves lunged forward snarling like
animals. My man Jim and the doctor beat one of the slaves down with their
musket butts while the other slave seized my other crewman, Seth, by the hair
and bit him where the neck meets the shoulder. Seth staggered back in horror as
I advanced and cracked his assailants head open with my musket butt.

"Take them!"

Doctor Menting moved quickly to assist Seth. He examined
his wound and found it superficial. He poured water on the wound to clean it
and encouraged us to move directly to the house so we could treat it properly.
Hector meanwhile was crouching next to the man he had shot. He called over to
Menting “Doctor, take a look at this man”. “Too late for him, I’m afraid” said
Menting as he walked over and kneeled next to the corpse. “Is he dead?” I said,
but Menting waved me off as he examined the man with a puzzled look on his
face. At last, he looked over at Hector and said “This man has been dead for
the best part of a week”. I was trying to make sense of that statement when Jim
called out “They’re coming!” and we looked around to see three more slaves
approaching from our right, through the undergrowth. Others could be seen in
the distance between us and the house. We hesitated, none of this was expected,
nothing made sense and then Hector barked “To the house! Run!” and we ran. Our
assailants were slow and we were able to avoid them as we approached the house.
The door swung open and a woman called to us “Come in, quickly!” We tumbled in
and she slammed the door and locked it.

"To the house!Run!"

We were in the central hall of the house, where a broad
stairway led to the second floor. Doorways to the left and right led to the two
main rooms on the ground floor. Margarate, the maid and the cook stood in the
hall staring at us. Menting approached Margarate who, of course, knew him but
Hector interrupted. “You and you to the window in that room and start shooting,
Menting follow me, you (this to the wounded Seth) escort the ladies upstairs
and stay with them”. He had the habit of command and we all responded by moving
to our assigned posts briskly. Soon muskets were firing from both front windows
and two of the slaves fell in the front yard. After that initial volley, the
slaves turned as if on command and shuffled away toward the undergrowth.“Cease fire!” called Hector, I suppose to
preserve our limited powder and shot, and soon our assailants were nowhere to
be seen.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

It was a beautiful autumn evening in Charleston.The new Governor was having a reception and,
as one of our towns most prominent citizens, I and my dear wife of 40 years
were invited. I’ve never been much of a dancer, nor have I the skill of idle
chatter. My wife was on the other side of the room with her friends and I found
myself discussing ships with the Governor, a man who had spent considerable
time at sea in his youth. When he offered to show me the collection of
curiosities he had acquired on his voyages, I accepted with pleasure. The first
few items were the usual clutter that the locals in far flung places will sell
to gullible white men, but I made a credible show of being interested. He had,
he assured me, saved the best for last. He led me to a cabinet about the height
of my chest and the width of my outstretched arms. He opened the doors, I saw
it and the years fell away. The breath was taken from my body and my heart was
frozen with fear. It was a primitive ritual display of bones and feathers of
sacrificed small animals interspersed with clay fire pots against a backdrop of magic symbols painted
on a tanned human skin. The centerpiece was a human skull also
painted with ritual symbols. I had seen one exactly like it during my first
voyage as Master, when I landed on Turtle Island in the Caribbean. When I regained consciousness the guests were
gathered around me and my wife was holding my hand.

As our carriage made its way through the empty streets toward
home my thoughts drifted back to the circumstances of my childhood. I was born William Fletcher. My parents were
indentured to one of the great plantations upriver of Charleston. My memories
of that time are mostly of working alongside of them in the fields. The year
that I turned 10 a coughing sickness swept through the area and took both my
parents. I stayed long enough to see their Christian burial by the plantation
folk and then set off for the city, having no desire to serve out the rest of
their contract.

My first impression of Charleston was of a place of
unimagined wonder. I was amazed by the size of the place, and so many people,
and most of all the ships. I’d never seen a ship and as I wandered along the
docks looking at one after another my heart stirred and the sadness I felt for
the loss of my parents was in some way lessened. The little food I had brought
with me was gone and, as I walked along the docks I tried to think on what I
might do to get by. There were men carrying burdens up a gangplank onto one of
the great ships and I wondered if I might help out and thereby earn a meal. A
young man in a fine brown coat stood to one side eating an apple and watching
their progress. He looked like he was in charge so I approached him but was
taken by shyness and couldn’t find words. The man looked down at me, smiled and
said “Good day to you, shipmate!” His face was so kind and his voice so warm
that everything that had happened in the last few days overwhelmed me and I
started to cry. He soon had my story out of me and in no time I was eating a
fine meal in a window seat of one of the taverns that lined the docks. In response to his questions I revealed my
circumstances. I had no kin, no place to go and I feared that I would be caught
and forced to serve out the remainder of my parents’ indenture contract on the
plantation. The man, John, was Master of the ship that was loading, and the son
of the house that owned several such ships. He was sailing that evening and
expected to be gone for about a month. He offered me a berth as cabin boy and I
accepted joyfully.

I took to the sea naturally and could never learn enough.
My duties were light and the crew thought I was lucky and adopted me as a sort
of mascot. I spent the free time working alongside various crewmenand learning what I could of their duties. By
the end of my first voyage I was a proper shipmate indeed. When we returned to
Charleston John brought me to the family home and introduced me to his parents.
His father was impressed by the overly generous account of my seagoing exploits
and his mother embraced me almost as a son from the outset. Over the next ten
years I was at sea more than on land. My responsibilities increased with my
growing skill and experience, and my adopted family even hired a tutor to teach
me reading, writing and mathematics whenever I was home. On my twentieth
birthday my father, for so I regarded him, made me Master of a small trading
sloop bound for the Dutch colony of Saint Martins in the Caribbean. So began
the strange voyage that I will tell you of tomorrow. Such things are better
told sitting by the fire with plenty of brandy after a good dinner. For now, I’ll
just say that I lived happily with my adopted family. When John was lost at sea
the tragedy brought me and my parents
closer in our grief. My mother passed away a few years later and my father did
his best to keep me running the business on dry land. It was too much for him
then and I think he feared losing me too. When that great and good man went to
his reward I was surprised to find that there was no other family and that all
had been left to me. From that time to this I have continued his honest
business practices and the company has prospered greatly.

Monday, September 21, 2015

Just before Wargames Factory handed over marketing their figures to Warlord Games they had a big sale. One of the items I acquired was enough War of the Spanish Succession cavalry to build a regiment on the Charles Grant model. I was left with 8 extra horsemen, and painted them up for a skirmish game where the dashing road agent Willie Brennan and his sidekick Mick have to outsmart or outrun Colonel Farrell and his detachment of the local Yeomanry.

Here we see Willie and and Mick galloping across my desk with the Colonel in hot pursuit. The problem now is rules. Something that has the Colonel gathering info on Willie's next move while Our Hero engages carriages full of beutiful rich women, relieves them of their baubles (except those with sentimental value!) and leaves them charmed and with a great story to tell. Does anyone in this community know of such a rule set that they could recommend?

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Philosophers have puzzled over the extended period of 'Not War' along the border between Ardoberg-Holstein and St. Maurice. Some thought that these neighbors had simply learned to settle their differences without cannon fire and others believed they just couldn't remember what the fighting was about. As we now understand, the lull in the fighting had been due to economy measures implemented by their respective French and English paymasters. Several months ago an English envoy arrived at the court of the Elector with a proposal for a force to join a Hanoverian army of observation on the border of San Maurice. When the spring grass was capable of supporting a campaign and the English contract money had arrived, one brigade of foot and one of horse marched to join the Hanoverians.

When the Elector arrived in the theatre of operations he found the St Maurician army had already crossed the river and was encamped near the village of Snitchel. The Allied army formed up with a brigade of two English and two Hanoverian regiments of foot on the left, a brigade of four Electoral regiments of foot in the center and a brigade of five regiments of Electoral cavalry on the right. The St Mauricians, equal to the Allies in numbers, deployed with their foot in the center and horse on both wings.

The English commander, Lord Muggles, considered the Electoral contingent to be under his command as it was an English subsidy that had brought them to the field. As in past joint operations, the Elector ignored Muggles' presumption and regarded the man as the most tedious of his three brigadiers. The Elector's battle plan was for Muggles to adopt a defensive stance on the left while the Electoral infantry in the center pinned the St Mauricians and the cavalry on the right delivered the decisive blow.

St Maurician Hussars take one in the labanza
Things began well enough as a raw Hanoverian regiment of foot repulsed the charge of the elite St Maurician Musketeers regiment of horse and the advancing Electoral cavalry brigade swept aside a single regiment of hussars in their path. Then things started to go terribly wrong. Von Hassenfeiffer commanding the Electoral cavalry was carried away by the majestic sight of his five regiments sweeping down on the enemy left. He was not unaware of the difficulty of breaking fresh lines of infantry with unsupported cavalry, but he knew his boys could do it! He knew they were unstoppable! His riders would shatter the enemy left and roll up their entire line. As the Electoral horse bore down on them the unintimidated St Mauricians poured disciplined volleys into their ranks and the horsemen reeled back in confusion.

The 'unstoppable' Electoral horse are stopped

The Electoral infantry press the center

The English/Hanoverian brigade, stout fighters, indifferent commander
For the rest of the battle the Electoral horsemen could do no more than launch poorly coordinated and ineffective attacks on the enemy left. Von Hassenfeiffer seemed to have lost control over his battered regiments. On the Allied left the English/Hanoverian brigade was under attack and was resisting manfully, although with little direction from Muggles. Slowly they were being whittled down. The only bright spot for the Elector was his infantry brigade in the center. What began as a pinning attack in support of the cavalry inflicted serious damage on the St Maurician center and left. In the end it was not enough and the Elector was forced to withdraw and leave the enemy in posession of the field.

St Maurician infantry taunt the withdrawing Allied army in their incomprehensible language
A pox upon he who styles himself King of St Maurice. Wait until next time!